The sombre moonlight is irradiating her face, barely making it visible. Her hair dancing on the whims of the night breeze. Eyes with a brownish hue, through the depth of their vastness are saying things. Things that words can’t contain, things that you only understand but can never articulate. Her smile starts from the corners of her lips and your heart knows it’s its time of weakness. The smile runs and blossoms in a moment, taking your heart for a run full of palpitations. A gush of blood has risen up in your streams, you can’t hear the rattle of crickets anymore. Even with all your might you can only muster to hold her hand and pray. Pray that the moon remains perched, guarding both of you in this murky night. That the wind wouldn’t stop playing with heavenly locks of her hair. That these stars would keep twinkling, as if applauding her grandeur. That time would stay still for a while so you seize this moment, before you run out of time.
These hurt but they’re lessons not scars.
Spring’s long over, welcome to our fall,
We needed darkness to savour the stars.
We were meant to but meant to fail.
These cosmos conspired and played us,
Sent to star in someone else’s fairy tale.
Welcome to the funeral, guests just two.
Hold and guide my hand for one last time,
As we word this eulogy that’s due.
Lost alone in the alleys of dreams we built,
In the ruins of promises of eternity.
Your company the drug and I, an addict.
We are dead but aren’t you and me reborn?
Catharsis of novated souls from our cadavour,
Croon the Happy Birthday song, don’t mourn.
As a kid I yearned for people to talk to me. Every night I wished for a friend who would just talk, listen to how my day went. I was that weird kid in school. Had big hopes about growing up. Thought things would change, I would grow into a normal man who would have company. A man who would not spend nights sobbing into his pillow and seek answers that were never coming.
Now things are better. Wouldn’t call it normal, but at least they talk. And they talk a lot. I mean I didn’t change much, just crafted this wooden table. When they wake up from anesthesia I just tell them that their hands are tied because that’s how the rules of this game are. You can’t really blame me, I didn’t get my fair share of games as a kid, Did I?
Now they have to keep talking, like anything and everything they can to talk about. Usually they try to convince me how we should stop this game and how they are gonna die. It’s lovely having some chattering company I swear. I never interrupt them, see I am very serious about the rules. If I say a thing they would stop talking. So I let them speak for hours and hours. Until their voice is gone or they stop for a pause hoping that I would be lenient with the rules. But they always end the game with a loud shriek, every one of them. Sorry, Did I tell you the guillotine drops when it can’t detect speech?
I love my house. The curtains aren’t to my liking but I am still glad the paint on walls hasn’t changed. They have moved my favorite reclining chair to the basement and I am sitting here on this bean bag that my daughter loves. But I still love them, just can’t express.
10 years since our marriage, and she hasn’t aged at all. You know the kind of love they show in the movies? Yes, totally that, it was magical when we first met and it’s still magical everytime I see her. She’s seeing Mat these days. Reading her favourite magazine, cross-legged, she’s waiting for him to ring the bell. I can read minds, I swear.
Mat seemed like a nice guy when I first saw him. Honestly, he was. I was happy someone was taking my place in her life. He gave time to my daughter and seemed to genuinely care for her like a father should. And now? You know it. He ‘was’ the nice guy next door.
Me? I just died 5 years ago. They said I am going to hell. I knew. And then they sent me here, at my home. To roam and watch around. Can’t touch a thing, can’t say a thing. Just glide and watch. I was still figuring out what kind of hell is this? And then one day I realised I could sense impending danger to my family.
Cocaine has got better of him and his finances. Mat’s here, walked into our driveway with a shiny knife. She’s here waiting for him to ring the bell. And I am here, helpless, condemned to watch my family die in my personal hell.
In July 2006 an infant named Prince fell into a 55-foot deep hole and 24×7 media attention ensued. I don’t remember if it was the first ever of its kind but it was at least in my memory. We all prayed while being shown every moment from the rescue site. You can imagine the scale of importance when even DD News was covering it live. He was rescued after spending 48 hours in the claustrophobic hole.In the coming months we saw multiple reports of kids falling in borewells and holes. Some rescues successful like Prince’s while some weren’t.
Recently, we witnessed some appalling imagery. An Odisha man, Dana Manjhi was forced to carry his deceased wife’s body on shoulders for 10 kilometers because an ambulance couldn’t be arranged. It’s shameful as much as it is shocking. In the days that have followed there has been multiplicity of reports of people in backward areas being deprived of basic amenities. People carrying a dead body for her last rites in MP were not allowed to pass through fields as they belonged to the dalit social strata. Eventually the body had to be taken through a pond instead. Another deplorable incident from Madhya Pradesh came to light when a man was forced off a bus and left stranded after his sick wife died during the journey to a hospital.
Today, there are 3-4 new stories. Familiar ones, a father carrying his dying son on his shoulders, begging for help and ending up with just his cadaver when it’s too late. More and more stories of lack of basic medical care and ambulances are being brought up every day.
It makes one think. A lot about administrative apathy in the 7th richest country in the world but more so about how these stories would never be known if not for Dana Manjhi’s dead wife. Media attention to this issue is tremendous at this point and that’s the reason this heart wrenching stream of incidences is becoming staple. Just like no one cared about children falling into borewells before Prince fell into one, so many people have died undignified deaths and many will in future.
What concerns me more is that few months or even an year after Prince’s rescue the reports of kids falling into ditches and their rescue stopped. Similarly, we are going to milk the issue of a dead body being carried on a man’s shoulder for weeks, or maybe months and then go on with our usual uninformed lives because the topic died out or isn’t ‘hot’ anymore. The number of kids falling or the people dying were, and are, the same. It’s just that our collective conscience is woken up from its sweet slumber momentarily by what I call ‘The prince effect’. And then it goes back to sleep.
The stench of freshly laid cow dung cakes was having a visually noticeable effect on my cameraman’s expressions. For me it was nostalgic in a way. The thing with being a reporter is, you can’t procrastinate. Editors are always on your heels for the next big scoop. We broke the lazy silence of this village, courtesy to the sweltering Punjabi summer. After much inquiry we knocked on what was supposed to be Jarnail Singh’s house.
“Sat Sri Akal! Does Jarnail Singh reside here?” I tried to have an apologizing tone, looking at the apparent displeasure of the sleepy young lady who opened the door.
“Oh, Dadaji? Wait a minute.” She hastened back into the house, leaving the door half open.
After a while a man, who appeared to be her husband attended us. He had no idea what had happened and why we were looking for Jarnail Singh. We tried explaining as he told us about his family history. He was Jarnail Singh’s grandson. His father died few years ago, and his late uncle’s name was Satwant Singh. He escorted us to his grandfather’s room.
Jarnail Singh was 92 years old now. On the table to his right was a picture of his younger days. Presumably just after his marriage. Looking at his wrinkles after looking at that picture could make one understand the frailty of human life. His hands in state of constant shaking, barely managing to hold the rosary in his right. We were told that he didn’t speak or listen clearly anymore. We could try.
I took my microphone out, the cameraman switched on the lights and focused on the man seemingly on his deathbed.
“Your son Satwant was killed in a fake encounter in 1991, the court has given a life-term to 47 policemen today, how do you feel?” His eyeballs turned to us, but that was it.
I repeated the question loudly. I asked his grandson to try and explain what we wanted to ask. I wished it was like movies, he would shed a tear to signal his joy or pain. Not because I wanted to capture it for my newsbyte, I just wanted the man to feel a sense of justice. His senses failed him when it mattered.
More than his senses, we failed him. The justice that we as a society served, stale and fatuous. After 26 years, I knock on the door to congratulate a man that justice has been done. He’s there, but can’t feel a thing. He’s there, but justice was too late to his rescue. His ears must have waited for so long to hear that news but they gave up before it arrived. As I walked back and the whiff of cowdung stuck us again, I felt slight contentment that he couldn’t hear the insult we call justice, anymore.
Based on – 1991 Pilibhit Fake Encounter
All our knowledge begins with the senses, proceeds then to the understanding, and ends with reason. There is nothing higher than reason.-Immanuel Kant
January 30, 2016. Mahatma Gandhi’s Death Anniversary. Hindu Mahasabha celebrated the death of Mahatma Gandhi. Distributed sweets and wowed to make India a Hindu nation. In their own words-
“We do not believe in the idea of a secular Constitution. When India officially declares itself a Hindu Rashtra, Godse will be declared its hero and Gandhi’s assassination would be declared a national festival,” Pandit Sharma said.
How is worshiping the assassin of the Father of Nation not a wrong that is as bad as calling Afzal Guru a martyr?
Justifying one wrong with someone else’s wrong is has become the society’s tendency. I am not here to justify, just to ask why was it not termed inflammatory or even seditious if we look from the recent narrow perspective of the authorities.
I was informed by people claiming to be RSS supporters that Nathuram Godse was a hero. He did it for the nation. Further, Gandhi was tagged as British appeasing, biased, sociopath, bootlicker, racist, castiest, pervert, traitor and inhuman. Further abuses can be read as articulated in this picture below.
Just wait a minute. Don’t be outraged over the fact that this might not be the philosophy or thinking of every RSS supporting person. I am aware, I am absolutely aware. But why we as a society are not aware that similarly, few students shouting anti-India slogans does not make the whole Institute anti-India.
If glorifying Nathuram Godse is nationalism, then no one has the right to object if I start worshipping Indira Gandhi’s assassins or maybe Afzal Guru. Every criminal justifies his acts, in their mind they are correct. Don’t make us read Nathuram Godse’s statements in court and his diaries to justify Gandhi’s killing. Killing someone is not your right, howsoever bad the person was. If I don’t agree with your opinion, doesn’t mean I am going to kill you and justify it later.
My blood too boils when I hear people shouting slogans like “Bharat tere tukde honge..”. But taking law in your own hands just because you prematurely adjudged someone as a traitor. How justified is that?
You saw it, I saw it, everyone saw it. OP Sharma, an MLA from Delhi beating a person on the apprehension that he belonged to the JNU. Police personnel duly watching from the sidelines with their hands in pockets, as the new vigilante took birth, cleaning the supposed scum of the nation from the streets. And the FIR finds no mention of his name. Squeaky clean.
You have the custody of an alleged traitor. His past court appearances have been eventful with mobs thrashing media personnel in court premises last time it happened. Supreme Court has issued guidelines to make things better in this appearance. After all these arrangements, few supposedly nationalistic lawyers, with tri-colour in their hands breach your futile arrangements and manage to hit Kanhaiya Kumar. You had one job mate.
Just having a tri-colour in your hand or saying bharat mata ki jai before you kill or hit someone doesn’t justify it. Are we still raising Nathuram Godses today, who kill or hit someone when they think it’s justified to do so?
Dissent is essential. Without dissent there can be no dialogue, no democracy. Remember emergency? I recall my dad telling me how all non-congress stalwarts we see to today, be it Lalu Prasad Yadav, Atal Bihari Vajpayi or Parkash Singh Badal, all were put in jail for having their own views. The views that the government didn’t like. Being an offshoot of the anti-emergency alliance, atleast BJP must realise how important free speech and restricting police action is. Government is correct in my honest opinion to arrest someone and look out for others. That’s their job. Here we as a society are failing when we are branding everyone from JNU as anti-national, every person conforming to left ideology is being seen suspiciously. You might not be falling for such far fetched allegations, but I have a general idea of it. Go to any news site with news about Lawyers beating Kanhaiya. Read those wonderful comments. They all are happy and celebrating that a person was beaten in public. They are endorsing mob justice. #ShutDownJNU is trending, because why not. After all everyone there, is a traitor.
I am not critical of government or students or the police or media. I am here on the sidelines, looking at this circus. Looking at how everyone is trying to maximize their benefit from a situation. Right winged institutions having an opportunity to show supposedly left university as anti-national (remember West Bengal and Kerala polls are coming?). Congress and left trying to show solidarity with the student community for political goodwill. Mainstream Media calling JNU students and bashing them, because all hail mob justice!(hi Arnab!). Delhi Police showing how ruling party bashing a person in public is a minor incident and how tough it is to spell OP Sharma in an FIR. I am too writing this post trying to get the Certificate of Nationalism from the right as well as left school of thoughts by trying to tread on a neutral line.
Blind folded police, with their hands tied behind their back, silently watching as a mob comes and beats up a person who was in their custody, looking over a man taking law in his own hands, beating a person just because his ‘blood boiled’. Not a pretty picture. In the end the question remains, Who will guard the guards?